[ ] died in the afternoon but did not live comfortably past the morning. Their family did not know them and neither do I.

from “Obituary Generator” by Mariah Bosch

Some years ago I wrote obituaries for my grandmother and uncle. Both people were very dear to me. After that, I started paying more attention to obituaries. (I had always been oddly fascinated with the obituaries of famous people and cried during the remembrance portion of awards shows, but sitting down tasked with writing about a life, especially the life of someone I loved, felt profoundly important and changed me.) I started reading the obituaries of loved ones people would post on social media. I started commenting words of condolence, even if I did not know the person who had suffered loss well. I shared stories of the departed, when I had known them well enough to have something to say, in the hope that it would comfort friends and family.

I learned a few things in writing the obituaries. I learned that details of a person’s life are fragile and unique and fleeting. I learned that memories are gently woven with emotion and romance and meaning. I learned that our stories live on as fact and fiction marry, and who we are becomes how the world remembers us.

I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about my own obituary. I simply have a few questions. I wonder if people know me. I wonder about legacy, and if I will leave the world better than I found it. I wonder if I should talk to my parents and brother and gather specifics of my life from their perspective. (I wonder if I should talk to them and get specifics of their lives, too.) I wonder if I should talk to people from various periods of my life? (Those conversations would require listening and forgiving and making peace with my story in ways that I can only imagine.) I wonder what secrets, or treasures, or shame, or sadness, or joy my questions would uncover.